


TV Tropes Will Ruin Your Life

by Vertiga



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Gen, Johnlock if you want it to be, TV Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:58:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vertiga/pseuds/Vertiga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for this prompt on the Kink Meme: Sherlock has had a spell put on him. He can only speak in TVTropes phrases. Dimmock is a Suspiciously Similar Substitute (That's DI Suspiciously Similar Substitute to you!) Moriarty is The Chessmaster, people who don't deduce or see things to Sherlock's Standards Did Not Do The Research, and so on and so forth. People who keep insisting that Sherlock and John must be together are "SHIPPERS ON DECK" and the most annoying one? He keeps calling John "Badass Adorkable".</p>
            </blockquote>





	TV Tropes Will Ruin Your Life

Sherlock has been surveying the crime scene for less than five minutes before he turns and begins spouting a stream of extraordinary deductions. Unfortunately for everyone involved, they are even less decipherable than they used to be.

‘Victim Of The Week a Dumb Blonde with Abusive Parents. Hilariously Abusive Childhood made her a Hooker With A Heart Of Gold, but slipping down Sliding Scale Of Idealism Versus Cynicism – naturally, Silly Rabbit, Idealism Is For Kids. Family Unfriendly Death; Fingore here, coupled with Eye Scream suggests Cold Blooded Torture, so suspect is a Complete Monster. Judging by stride and hair samples, he’s Tall Dark And Handsome, possibly Deadpan Snarker, judging by placement of Calling Card with Have A Nice Day Smile. Obviously Evil, but possibly an Evil Genius, judging by the inventiveness of the Electric Torture used here.’

‘Christ, slow down!’ John types frantically on his phone, accessing the TV Tropes site to decode everything Sherlock has just told them. It has been almost a month since the explosion at the pool, and a serious head injury which left Sherlock speaking in this peculiar manner, and John is more-or-less resigned to having to use the internet to decipher everything his flatmate says. He is learning fast, however, and the more common tropes are an easy enough substitute for normal conversation.

Sherlock waits impatiently for John to finish looking up the new tropes and tell DI Dimmock what he means.

‘Ok, she was a kind hearted prostitute driven to the life by poor parenting. She has been becoming jaded – God, who wouldn’t? Her death was nasty – Thank you, Captain Obvious; anyone with eyes could have figured that out.’

Sherlock snorts, and John realises that he has used a trope name without thinking about it. Christ, the bloody things are catching!

‘The suspect is tall and dark haired, probably highly intelligent and given to sarcastic humour – hence the smiley face left on the body.’

‘That’s it?’ Anderson says, rolling his eyes. ‘Trust him to make it as long-winded as possible!’

‘Blind Idiot Translation, Badass Adorkable,’ Sherlock says crossly.

John sighs. Names are one of the things Sherlock has lost entirely, substituting instead with whichever trope he thinks fits each person at that moment. John doesn’t mind being called Determinator (finds it rather flattering, in fact) and even Stoic Woobie is tolerable. However, 90% of the time, Sherlock calls him Badass Adorkable, especially in company, and John is beginning to wonder if it’s possible to spontaneously combust from embarrassment.

‘Blind Idiot... Right, what did I miss, Sherlock?’ John asks, with the patience of a saint.

‘Eye Scream. Calling Card. It’s The Chessmaster.’

‘Moriarty?’ John says, and feels a sinking feeling in his guts as Sherlock gives a tight nod. Neither of them have forgiven that bastard for the incident at the pool which put Sherlock in this condition in the first place.

‘Moriarty? Why’d a criminal mastermind who never gets his hands dirty be torturing prostitutes to death?’ Dimmock asks doubtfully.

‘Drop the Idiot Ball for once, Suspiciously Similar Substitute,’ Sherlock snaps.

‘Oy! I told you it’s DI Suspiciously Similar Substitute to you.’ Dimmock says, but Sherlock is already speaking again.

‘Psycho For Hire!’ he says, spreading his hands as though it ought to be obvious even to idiots.

John has heard this one before, on a case involving the reappearance of their old friend the Golem. ‘You mean it’s a hired hitman, not Moriarty himself. Fine, but what’s the big scheme?’

Sherlock prowls back and forth for a minute, then turns on his heel, his coat swirling dramatically behind him, and says ‘Xanatos Roulette.’

A quick search leaves John frowning, and he thinks Sherlock is going to explode with frustration if one of them doesn’t catch up soon. He found it frustrating enough being so much more intelligent than everyone else even before he lost the ability to communicate freely. John does his best, and Sherlock can still solve the cases he needs to stay sane, but it’s far from perfect.

‘Xanatos Gambit, Magnificent Bastard. Dumb Blonde, Chronic Backstabbing Disorder, Everythings Better On Drugs!’ Sherlock shouts angrily.  
John winces in sympathy, just as he does every time the limited language of TV Tropes breaks down and leaves Sherlock scrabbling for the phrasing he needs. Others are not so sympathetic.

‘Oh, for God’s sake...’ Anderson mutters. He’s leaning against the wall, arms folded, looking as thoroughly unimpressed with Sherlock’s presence as ever. ‘John, hurry up and figure out what your boyfriend is saying before he snaps and there’s another corpse in here.’

Sherlock rounds on Anderson. ‘Don’t need a Shipper On Deck here, Idiot Hair.’

‘Right, he’s not your boyfriend. Forgot that Sociopaths don’t have boyfriends.’ Anderson snipes.

Sherlock grins. ‘Anti Hero, Tall Dark And Snarky.’

‘Ambiguously Gay,’ John adds, and fights down a grin of his own when Sherlock glares at him. He can’t resist using the tropes for a little wind up now and again, especially when Sherlock is using them to boast. One of the few things Sherlock doesn’t seem to mind about his condition is the quantity of rather flattering (to his mind) things he can now say about himself. Many tropes almost seem designed perfectly to describe him.

John keeps reading examples of the tropes Sherlock shouted, hoping for inspiration, and suddenly thinks he might have put the fractured phrases together. ‘Wait, Sherlock, do you mean that Moriarty is running several schemes at once, one of which involves drugs, which this victim was taking, or maybe selling, and she tried to betray him somehow?’

Sherlock nods emphatically, and the look in his eyes is so grateful it’s almost painful to see. ‘Smart Ball,’ he says.

John flushes with pleasure. Of all Sherlock’s newly-limited compliments, that might well be his favourite. Sherlock only says it when John does something uncharacteristically clever.

‘So now what?’ Dimmock says, staring down at the corpse. ‘Even if we know why she died, we’ll never pin it to Moriarty. That man is a ghost.’

‘Heel Face Turn,’ Sherlock says triumphantly, and holds up the cardboard smiley face left on the body. Written on the back is an address.

‘The hitman betrayed him. Brilliant,’ John breathes, his heart quickening at the very thought of getting a step closer to Moriarty.

‘Right, I’ll get a team together, set up a raid.’ Dimmock says. ‘You two can leave; we’ve got everything useful you can give us.’

Sherlock scowls. ‘Big Bad, The Chessmaster, Roaring Rampage Of Revenge, No One Gets Left Behind!’ he spits.

‘Not now, Sherlock.’ Dimmock says dismissively. ‘I think you’re trying to insist on coming with us, but you’d be a bloody liability talking like that!’

John’s blood boils at the casual brush off. ‘Now just a damned minute, Dimmock! If it weren’t for Sherlock you’d have nothing at all. If anyone deserves a shot at Moriarty it’s him, and he’s not a bloody liability! His vocabulary is more than sufficient to communicate in an emergency, and I’ll be with him at all times to translate the rest. Frankly, I’d rather hunt down a criminal genius with Sherlock, even handicapped like this, than with you at your best. We are coming with you, and that’s not a request. Get your damned team together pronto and we’ll see you there!’ John turns and stomps away, breathless from his outburst.

Dimmock stares after him, speechless.

Sherlock merely grins. ‘Beware The Nice Ones,’ he says, and stalks off after John.


End file.
